To Climb from the Depths of a Selfish Soul
by HoodedandCloaked
Summary: This is an offshoot from my Guy/Marian fic, "Your Last Chance to be a Good Man." How is Allan fairing without the gang? Allan/Kate
1. Chapter 1

"Oi! Shove off!" Allan a Dale sat in the corner of the tavern nursing his umpteenth mug of ale.

"I asked you to leave a good twenty minutes ago, I'm trying to close up shop!" The tavern-keeper gestured around to the empty room; the tables had been cleared, the chairs pushed in, and the only light came from the lantern that the grubby, plump man held to light up his way as he locked up his establishment for the night.

"Well, I'm not done with my drink yet!"

"That's what you said twenty minutes ago! So unless you'd like to purchase a room here, I'd suggest you get yourself out of my place before I hafta go and wake up Robert Portly to throw you out." The man emphatically pointed in the direction of the door, and Alan rolled his eyes.

The action set the room spinning again, but Alan didn't care. "Aw, go on and wake him, then, I can take him." He took another swig from the mug.

"That's not how it went yesterday, or have you forgotten what your face looks like?"

Alan clutched his ale a little tighter and frowned. How could he forget? He could hardly open his left eye what with the bruise the size of a chicken's egg accosting his face.

"Look Alan, you're drunk; just go home." The tavern-keeper put his hand on Alan's back.

"Gerroff me!" Alan slapped the man's hand away and stood up. He drained the last of the liquid from his mug and staggered to the door. He leaned on the doorpost and closed his eyes for a moment, then he stepped out into the cold night.

"Go home, Alan, go home. Yeah yeah, that's alright for you to say, you fat lump." He scoffed, then shivered and wrapped his threadbare coat closer around him, squeezing his bleary eyes shut once more. Upon opening his eyes, he saw that the sky had gone all topsy-turvey, then suddenly, the ground was much closer than it had been a moment ago; he didn't even feel the impact. He lay on his face for a while, then looked up to see a house with a large pile of hay beside it.

"Seems as good a place as any." He shrugged, and slowly crawled his way over to the hay pile and buried himself in it. He settled into the prickly straws, with only his face sticking out so as to be able to breathe, and despite the fact that he was still quite cold, he quickly succumbed to his drunken stupor and drifted off to sleep.

"_AUGH!_" Allan bolted out of the hay, throwing off the stiff needles and drawing his knife. Sunlight accosted his vision and even through his pounding headache, he could feel that his leg had been stabbed. He stumbled backwards a bit as he blinked to get used to the sun again, but he held his knife out in front of him, ready to take on whoever had attacked him.

After a couple of seconds, his vision had returned well enough, and he saw his attacker standing in front of him with his hands up. The man, who actually looked more and more like a boy as Allan's eyes adjusted, had a pitchfork at his feet, and he kept glancing behind Allan for some reason.

He soon learned the reason when he heard the sound of a sword being drawn and a booming voice from behind him, "Stay away from my son!"

Allan turned around as the situation began to dawn on him. The mud on the leather apron of the large man holding the sword, coupled with the hay pile that Allan had spent the night in, spoke to the man's profession. _Ah, the bricklayer, of course,_ Allan raised his hands to show his knife and slowly put it back into his belt. "Yes sir, no problem here sir, just a bit of a misunderstanding."

He tried a lighthearted chuckle, but the man seemed to be in a less than amiable mood. A little girl peeked out from behind her mother, who stood in the doorway of the house. The woman looked a bit more sympathetic than her husband, so he gave her a pleading look followed by a hopeful smile. The little girl shrunk back a little more, and her mother continued to simply watch with a considering eye.

The bricklayer, however, did not appreciate Allan making faces at his wife and made it apparent by whacking Allan in the ribs with the flat side of his sword to bring his attention back. Allan yelped and put out his hands in a placating gesture, swaying a little under his pounding head, "Really, I didn't mean any harm. I'll just be goin' now, and we can forget all about this, alright?"

"You pull a knife on my boy, and you think you can just leave?" The sword point was getting a little too close for comfort.

Then the boy spoke up, "Father, it-it weren't his f-fault. I-I was just– "

"Quiet!" So much for that; Allan glanced around to look for the nearest path away from the large sword-wielding man. _Shouldn't be too hard to outrun him. If I can pull off runnin'._

"Hey, haven't I seen you before?" Allan groaned inside, if that man had seen him before, it was surely not going to be a good thing.

His nerves dictated that he try another chuckle, "Ah, I've never seen you before, mate, I'm sure of that."

It was no use, the man had already begun to ponder where he'd seen him, and when he realized it, there would be no chance of escaping. At least, no chance of escaping with any money in his pocket. Allan saw the man's eyes light up in recognition, then turn murderous, and the fear coursing through him intensified, "_**YOU! **_Get inside, Mary, this might get ugly."

The bricklayer took a swing with his sword, and Allan jumped back, drawing his knife. His head spun and he almost vomited on the spot. The man kept coming, "You fleeced me out of some hard earned money! You little _theif!"_

Somehow_,_ he managed to block the next of the man's blows. Apparently bricklaying work did not leave much time for sword practice. He was coming on heavy fueled by anger; usually those were Allan's favorite people to fight, but he was feeling significantly less nimble than usual, and the fight quickly went sour.

The larger man attacked again and again with Allan barely deflecting the hits. Finally, one got through; Allan had lost his footing and begun to tumble backwards, and the sword nicked him across the chest over his heart. It wasn't deep at all, but it sure stung like anything.

The bricklayer was on him in a second, but he needn't have bothered being quick, Allan's aching head would have kept him from rising for a good ten minutes. Allan felt the flat of the sword just under his neck as the man held him down on the ground. He opened his eyes wide and affected a look of frightened confusion.

"You're lucky I don't do killin' in front of my boy, but I hope you're good and prepared to pay back what you took from me, 'cause I don't think you'll want to find out what happens if you don't."

"Look, mate, you've got the wrong guy, alright? I'm –"

"No games!" The blade pressed harder on his chest and crept closer to his neck.

Allan took in a sharp breath and smiled nervously at the man, weighing his choices. He could give the man his money, but then he wouldn't have any, or he could continue to lie to the man in hopes that he would let him go. After all, the first time they'd met he'd trusted Allan enough to believe it was possible to win his little game. Then again, the man might just kill Allan and take any money he had on him, then he'd be broke and dead. He didn't particularly want to be either, but he'd rather be broke than dead, so he grudgingly made up his mind, "Alright, alright, you got me. Let me up, I'll give you the money."

The man narrowed his eyes at Allan, then, seeming almost satisfied, he let up on the sword and allowed Allan to regain his feet.

After the world stopped spinning, Allan reached into his money pouch and pulled out some coins, "Here, it's all I've got. Take it."

"There's barely a tuppence here! Who do you think I am?"

"I told you, it's all I have, can I go now?"

"I'm not trusting you so quickly this time, thief." The bricklayer pulled back his thick forearm and hit Allan in the face with a heavy backhand. Allan hit the ground, and before he knew what was happening, the man had ripped his money pouch away from him and shook the rest of the coins out into his hand. He gave Allan a satisfied smile, "That's better."

But the frown quickly returned, "Now get out of here, and never let me see your face again, you little crook!"

Allan rubbed his jaw, which now ached almost as much as his head, and attempted to stand. After failing a couple of times, he dragged himself out of the dirt and limped away as quickly as his leg would permit him.

He stumbled down the road a ways, until he was far enough away from the bricklayer's home, then he collapsed on the ground and leaned against the side of a building beside the road. He vaguely hoped it didn't house any more old 'acquaintances' of his as he began to check his wounds.

He fingered the bruise on his face from the other night at the tavern. Thankfully, he had managed to avoid hitting his head on the ground when the bricklayer had whacked him over, so the older bruise was about the same. Unfortunately, now the other side of his face would also be in pain, and his jaw was starting to swell.

The scratch on his chest wouldn't give him any trouble, but the sword had made a nice hole in his shirt. Where the pitchfork had hit him though, those puncture wounds worried him a bit. He wished that Djaq was there to help him, and he found himself hoping that _somebody_ would at least send word to her and Will if anything were to happen to him.

That thought unsettled him greatly, so he quickly put it out of his mind. Or at least, out of the forefront. Thoughts of that nature always hung around the fringes of his consciousness. He didn't want to die, but he desperately hoped that somebody would care if he did.

He sat with his head between his knees for a while, letting the pain throb around and through him, and considering just going to sleep again, but he knew that wasn't an option; he needed to find a way to make some money.


	2. Chapter 2

New town, new tavern. Allan may have lost all of his money in that fight two days earlier, but he still had the cups for his little game, and after a long day of good, honest money-making, he sat at a table enjoying a well-earned meal; the first in a while.

After eagerly devouring the food, Allan leaned back in his chair and waited for the serving girl to come around. He needed something to help calm his aching head.

He reached down to make sure the rag that he had tied around his leg was still there and ignored the shivers that ran up his back at the still-tender wounds. That had been happening all day anyway.

He wondered if they should still be so sensitive, but his musings were cut short when a girl burst in through the tavern's entrance wearing a plain, gray dress and a fierce scowl.

Allan shrank back instinctively, but she was not here for him. She stomped right up to the bar, blonde hair whipping behind her, and started yelling at the tavern-keeper about "delaying payment," and how it was the same as stealing or something like that.

The tavern-keeper tried to get her to sit down and talk more quietly with him, but she seemed to prefer making a scene. "Now give me the money for those mugs or I will take them back!"

Allan couldn't really tell whether the man gave in or not, because suddenly the two of them seemed very far away. On account of the weather, Allan hadn't thought much of his inability to get warm all day, but now, he felt as though his clothes had caught fire, the chills from before replaced with a crawling heat boiling across his skin.

He looked down to make sure he hadn't actually burst into flames, and his eyes took a moment to adjust. _I don't think this is supposed to be happening_.

He brought his eyes back up and saw the tavern-keeper handing money over to the girl. She gave the man a satisfied smirk and turned to leave, but Allan must have been staring, because she stopped when she saw him, "What are you lookin' at then?"

Just then, a violent shiver jolted through his body, and he curled in on himself. He looked up and around for the serving girl, this time to ask her for a drink of water, but nothing would come into focus. He tried to stand, but his leg protested viciously, and for all of his effort, he ended up on the ground, looking up at the tavern's roof and groaning.

Allan put his hands to his face and tried to rub away some of the confusion in his senses. His skin was cold to the touch, but covered in a layer of sweat, and as panic grew inside of him, he began to shake uncontrollably. A trembling that had nothing to do with his fear.

He felt a hand touch his back, but he didn't care. His mind had gone beyond the realm of physical concerns. Strong arms may or may not have lifted him from the floor and carried him to a room, but he soon felt a bed beneath him, so it must have actually happened.

Various words floated their way into the atmosphere of his understanding, "physician's," "brother," "go." None of it made any sense. Allan wondered why everyone around him had gone crazy. He tried to ask what was going on, but his mouth ignored his command to speak. He heard strange mutterings coming from somewhere, and he realized that his eyes were closed. A disconnect had formed between the physical and mental.

The heat of flames consumed him again, and he knew for sure that he would die. _No! Not today!_ His body convulsed, and he shook. Hands clamped down on his wrists, and someone dripped some kind of liquid into his mouth.

Allan floated, time out of mind. He could feel his body shivering, but his thoughts had become a jumbled mess, and he felt himself slipping. He clung to consciousness by a thread, but own his tenacity was not enough. Blackness enveloped him, and he wondered if he was going to meet God or the Devil.


End file.
